


Promises

by Jon



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jon/pseuds/Jon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being pinned by a Warg, Thorin is badly wounded in an orc ambush outside of the Hidden Pass, and is in a terrible state when he reaches Rivendell. He does not want to reveal to the Company or any of the elves there just how badly hurt he is, especially not Dwalin- who he knows would fuss worse than Dori...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promises

The attack outside Rivendell had been brutal and unexpected- and Thorin knew that it was only by the grace of Mahal himself that they had, at the last moment, found the Hidden Pass to safety. Thorin begrudged taking this route, but it was the only hope he had left- and he was in no fit state to argue.

Trying his best, he clung onto the cool walls of the path, watching his feet so he shouldn’t fall, and tried to desperately put one foot in front of the other, in front of the other, and so on and on until he could pass out somewhere, unseen by the rest of his Company.

He could still feel the weight of the Warg on top of him- he couldn’t shake the disgusting breath of the beast out of his nose, and it clung to his clothes like mud. He felt sure then that he would die- unable to see anything apart from it’s eyes, unable to hear anything other than the triumphant cry of the orc atop it, and far off his nephews’ screams, screaming for Gandalf, for Dwalin, for anyone.

He hadn’t come that close to death before, and he was still shaking from it.

It was only by an elvish arrow, fired from horseback somewhere far over the plains, that he’d been spared, but not before he’d felt plainly the splinter of his own ribs somewhere across his back as the Warg’s full weight bore down on him. If he’d had breath to scream then, he would have. Walking now was a chore, and he longed to drop on all fours and crawl- but the best he could do was drag himself along; clutching onto any surface, forcing down the vomit which rose in his throat as he felt his chest searing beneath his jacket.

He’d taken a blow to the face, too, when he’d lost his concentration- before the Warg had taken advantage and pounced. That blow had left him reeling, spitting blood, and leaving him open to a flying kick to his shin with an orc’s metal boot; he’d soon dispatched the creature, but as he’d stumbled in agony he had been hit again and pinned down completely.

This kept on replaying in his mind, tormenting him with his gross failure. A quick dodge, a quicker sword-blow, and he would not be like this. He wouldn’t be a half-dead dwarf walking.

‘Y’ alright, Thorin?’ Dwalin asked, coming up behind him and clapping a hand on his shoulder.

Thorin tried not to flinch or jerk away, and his body bore the gentle weight of that hand as if it were a pack-horse’s load.

‘Good. Little dizzy, ‘s all,’ he managed to grind out, but he could hardly form the words through the blood still trickling from his mouth. He raised a shaking had to wipe the mix of blood and spit away from his chin and beard, half of his mouth feeling numb.

He managed to stand up straight (or what he deemed was straight enough, without being sick at Dwalin’s feet) and looked him in the eye, trying to put the face of leadership back on.

‘Really, Dwalin. I’ll be alright. I’m fine. Just a knock to the mouth- nought worse than what you do to me in sparring!’ he tried to jest, but he felt his laugh come out gurgling and breathy. Dwalin looked unconvinced, but Thorin smiled at him until he strode off towards the sunlight streaming from the entrance.

When the others had passed him, even Gandalf too, only then did he allow himself to sink down, clawing at his beard with bruised fingers. He knew he couldn’t allow them to worry about him- not his nephews, and especially not Dwalin, who he knew would fuss and curse and splutter worse than Dori would with Ori. It was his mistake. His fault. And he would bear it.

 

**

 

Rivendell had a sickly-sweet smell to it, one that he couldn’t quite stomach. How he’d got down the sheer path or over the narrow bridge without toppling into the water was anyone’s guess, but still he walked- and still he grit his teeth. Now there was nothing to hold onto ( _apart from Dwalin_ , his mind whispered to him, and by Durin’s Crown did he long for it). He stood to face the elves, the old hatred dulling his pain to a mere ache for one moment as he gazed upon their faces; they all looked the same and they all reminded him of Thranduil, and of every elf that turned his back that day.

Now they were bidden to eat- Thorin feigned hunger, watching as Dwalin practically salivated at the thought of a decent meal and grinned at him. He tried to smile back, and if it was a little pained, he was sure Dwalin took it for the anger just ebbing from him.

In the chamber before the courtyard which was set out for their supper, Dwalin gently took him aside. Thorin held his breath, anticipating what was coming; Dwalin wasn’t stupid, he’d know how much be hurt, though Thorin had taken care not to even so much as limp in front of the elves.

‘Should get yer mouth looked at before we sup, my lord,’ he said to him, out of sight of the others.

Thorin exhaled (ribs protesting) and licked his tongue around his lips, tasting still the tang of blood on them. Perhaps he’d allow himself to take something for it, if only to try and force down some food.

‘Dwalin, you know I do not trust elvish medicine… elvish herbs,’ he said, eyeing one elf who passed on the other side of them, carrying a platter of something which looked like a small bush.

‘Aye, but y’ need to eat something,’ Dwalin answered, brushing his fingers over Thorin’s hand. Thorin looked around for an elf or two lurking, and his weary eyes finding none, briefly entwined his fingers with Dwalin’s.

‘I… I can’t let them think that I’m _weak_. That I need their _help_ ,’ he spat. The pain of his injuries was matched with a loathing bubbling inside him- for himself, for orcs, for elves. For this whole fucked up situation.

Dwalin brought their faces close, wrapping his fingers in Thorin’s matted braids, fingertips teasing the strands of hair apart. He could have fallen into those arms; the strength and warmth that his body craved calling out to him, but he yielded not. He settled instead for the slightest touch of their foreheads, conscious of the fact that every elf in Rivendell was probably spying in on their privacy.

‘Aye, I know you’re not, but it’s only a wee cut to the mouth. Nought major,’ Dwalin growled in his ear. Thorin turned his head slightly, his cheek catching the warm breath, and were they truly alone he would have grasped those fingers tighter, pressed against those full lips in a kiss.

After they’d shared a moment, Dwalin drew back, a brow raised at him. _Was_ it anything major?

Thorin swallowed a lie.

‘No. It- it doesn’t even hurt anymore. I suppose you’re right, though,’ he sighed, as the elf (Linder? Lenor?) hovered by the door, apparently sent to bring them to Lord Elrond.

Dwalin pulled away from him with a growl and his dark eyes flashing in the elf’s direction, but he did not let go of Thorin, still gently holding him at his waist. Thorin was suitably satisfied to see the intruder blanch a little, and sweep hurriedly the way he’d entered.

Dwalin’s jaw worked beneath his beard as he mulled thoughts over, and the older dwarf bit his lip as he usually did when faced with awkward speech, fumbling at Thorin’s belt.

‘I ah- I will not sit with you at the table… if it would be too uncomfortable for you to- to explain-’ he stuttered, reddening under his beard.

Thorin could have genuinely laughed now, and he pressed his lips together to place a swift kiss on Dwalin’s cheek, making sure not to get blood on his skin.

‘I do not wish to explain to elves the nature of our relationship… and I think elven beds will be big enough for the both of us if we are given one each- well, lengthwise, if not sideways,’ he said with a smirk.

Taking Dwalin to his side, when he took no other to Elrond’s table, would be awkward. He settled for this meal time to be taken alone- and was secretly relieved. He doubted he could force a single hunk of bread down, and was unsure if he could sit straight in his chair or just lay in a pile. He would not have himself looking like a wreck next to Dwalin when they were in the presence of an elven lord.

‘Go get some medicine, then some food and sleep- you look exhausted,’ Dwalin said, reaching up to smooth one of Thorin’s braids behind an ear- an old habit of his. Thorin nodded, feeling another bruise or four blossoming somewhere on his body even as he stood.

When Dwalin left him, Thorin gingerly felt where the other’s hands had been softly gripping him, biting back a whimper at the sharpness which snaked up his sides. He grudgingly thought that his only refuge would be some elvish stuff- for his mouth, and perhaps he could sneak away some bandages or healing salve. He would not have Oin tend to him- not when the old dwarf was meant to be recovering himself. Perhaps he’d take a bath, try to get some blood off of his body, and see how much damage had been dealt.

 

**

 

Thorin soon found that the waters of the rumbling lake- over which the narrow bridge to the Last Homely House arced- had healing properties, and if they elves saw him bathing in it moreso than his other companions, they said nothing.

Sinking his battered skin into the water for the first time had almost made him groan aloud, a tingle rushing up inside him. He had stayed there all evening, reclining on the bank, but ducking his shoulders into the water whenever someone passed him on the shore. The sight of his bruises made the pain double, and in the haze of relief the water brought he took in the various disgusting colours of each, making a note of where to treat first if he got his hands on some compresses or bandages.

The first night in Rivendell, he had been given a foul tasting mouth wash to rinse with- the elven healer eyeing him disparagingly. It had made the cut heal quicker than Thorin thought possible, but he tried to hide his wonder with a gruff _‘my thanks’_. This was elven craft, and lest he want more of that on his body, he thought, he should keep his mouth shut. Now, if only the elf had taken his eyes off him for just a second he might have been able to get some of the common herbs he recognised in the elf’s store, slip some clean linen strips which he’d seen on the side into his pocket.  
  
Alas, he had been unable, and left there to try and eat with his companions, one small grace being that he could no longer taste blood seeping around his gums or the bitterness of his own vomit at the back of his throat.  
  
He caught Dwalin’s eye a few times at the table, never more than a second’s contact. Each time he’d looked down, loathe to give more elves other than Lindir an inkling of what was between them. Instead he’d made small talk with the half elven lord, on Gandalf’s behest. He was sure that he could see through him, the sure and straight gaze unnerving him; who knew if those elf eyes could pierce his very clothes, to see his torn and purple skin, or even down to his bones?

 

This evening, he was in the same spot, half-hidden by an overhanging outcrop of trees and letting the healing waters wash over him. Even after a few days he felt much better- alive, at least. He had managed, with some difficulty, to keep Dwalin away from him at night; a circumstance he had entirely forgotten about until he had taken his hand after dinner, with a suggestive gaze in his eyes.

That night, he didn’t have to feign exhaustion; it was real enough, and his lover respected that, choosing to sit and drink with Bofur and Kili. Now after the third night apart, and the third night of him tending alone to his wounds, he could sense Dwalin was getting antsy- but he’d made sure to mention to him the meetings with Elrond and Gandalf to put an idea in his head of where he was every night. He’d left him by the fire, with the taste of him still on his lips after he had been passionately and painfully embraced, Dwalin’s hands slow to still on his body after he whispered at him he needed to be elsewhere tonight.

When he was less bruised, he would go to him, and not be afraid of him getting angry or worrying (probably both). He looked mournfully down at his skin- still a wonderful array of colours and textures, and he was sure the cut on his side was far from healing even with the water. He walked less bent over now, which was a good thing, as he could only stand Nori’s ‘riding’ jokes for a small length of time, but still made sure to only limp when no one was around. His ribs he could do nought about anyway- they would have to heal on their own, and the journey looming ahead wouldn’t help.

He stretched as gently as he could, his knotted muscles protesting and rejoicing at the same time. Tonight he was enjoying the liberty of bathing nude, as he had always remained at least partially clothed for fear of giving an elf more of an eyeful that they could handle, and becoming the laughing stock of the Company and of Rivendell.

He tipped his head back in the moonlight, reaching down and drawing his damp hands up his exposed thighs as he stood up in a shallow part, wincing slightly as some slimy weed wrapped around his ankle. He had been gone more than an hour, and the hurt for tonight was nearly gone- the water was beginning to loose it’s warmth as the cleansing and refreshing properties faded, the chill of the night settling in his goosebumpped skin instead.

He was just about to turn and get his clothes when he heard footsteps coming down the pathway which led to his spot. The sparse undergrowth rustled under a heavy foot, an unmistakeably dwarvish foot- he knew he would be too slow to move into any shadows by the riverbank, and his limbs were still too stiff. He could only stand like some gory beacon in the water, covering his modesty as the figure came into view. In his mind, he prayed to the Maker for it to be anyone but the one dwarf he feared to see standing there above all-

‘D… Dwalin-’

 

**

 

His lover dropped the fresh towel and tunic he’d been carrying, and Thorin heard them fall to the ground with a soft ‘plump’. His eyes, almost invisible by the night, were wide and dark to Thorin’s accustomed vision, staring openly at his body. A lump formed in his throat as he felt every one of his bruises under that gaze, sharper than even Lord Elrond’s had been over him, and a thousand times worse.

Thorin’s breath hissed out through his nose, and finally he settled to look away from the other dwarf- fearing too much what he’d see. He removed his hands from cupping himself- it was all but useless now- and he balled them unconsciously into fists.

_Not like this… not like this…_

‘How _dare_ you.’

The coolness of Dwalin’s voice shocked him, and he looked up at him- a flicker of horror crossing his face. He should have expected this if Dwalin found out; he was a dwarf which did not take lying well, even if Thorin thought hiding his injuries from him had a perfectly acceptable reason.

‘Dwalin, I’m not that badly-‘

‘How _dare_ you keep this from me- your… your lover… your. Your-‘

Dwalin’s hands were shaking, and his lips were white in the light of the moon and the faint homely glow from the rooms above them which filtered through the windows. His spluttering soon faded out into nothing. Thorin lowered his head in shame, wanting nothing more than to sink under the water away from the intensity of Dwalin’s eyes, which were still raking over every cut and every swollen part they could see.

‘This is my fault- and I didn’t want to trouble you with the results of an error I made in battle,’ said Thorin.

Shame, disgust at his mistakes- at what he’d let happen to himself- dripped from every syllable, and as he voiced what had been eating him up for days, he decided that he would dress and leave.

Dwalin was silent on the shore- not a good sign, even worse than him shouting his anger; Thorin knew him too well. With a great effort, he began to wade towards him, his head bent and arms trying to surreptitiously hide the worst parts from view, though the attempt was futile.

‘How bad is it?’

Thorin’s heart broke as he heard the tears in Dwalin’s voice, the faint crack and tremble. Dwalin had picked the dropped bundle and was walking towards him with the fresh towel outstretched to catch him, and Thorin nearly recoiled at this act of kindness, of mercy and love. He couldn’t go into his arms; he couldn’t deal with Dwalin’s tears for him.

‘Not bad…’ he tried, but his voice was entirely unconvincing, and it sounded small in his throat and ears.

‘Thorin, I know you’re lying to me- an’ I won’t tolerate it anymore- I _need_ to know.’

As Thorin stopped in front of Dwalin, he was enveloped in the soft material, but however demanding Dwalin’s voice was, it had lost it’s shocked coldness of beforehand and instead was pleading and helpless, which made something pull painfully inside Thorin.

‘My ribs are cracked… a lot of bruising, the worst of it is my chest, my sides… _I should have been more careful_!’ he said, angry tears filling his eyes.

Dwalin inhaled at the first, and jerked his touch away from Thorin’s sides, though the water had dulled the pain considerably.

‘Y’ right black and blue like I’ve never seen, love,’ he whispered to him, and moved closer to kiss the shell of his ear gently, sending a bolt of sensation down the side of Thorin’s neck.

‘The waters of the elves are healing waters; I feel no pain tonight and have been healing faster than I would have done,’ he conceded. Aye truly, without his discovery he would have given up and asked for help long ago. Dwalin shook his head, running his fingers lightly over Thorin’s sternum and collar bones with his eyes closed.

‘Y’ should have told us, told me, told Oin- we could have helped y’. There’d be no need to tell the others if you hadn’t wished it but… but- why not me, Thorin- _Mahal above_!’ he said, ire rising in his voice at the end and his eyes flashing in betrayal.

‘I- my own pride,’ he admitted. He was tired now, and the warmth of the towel was enough to send him half to sleep on Thorin’s shoulder as he allowed himself to be cradled against his body.

‘You know how I am, Dwalin,’ he said quietly.

The larger dwarf sighed against Thorin’s throat, which his lips had found as he brought Thorin in for an embrace.

‘And your pride will end you one day,’ he said bitterly.

Thorin could only smile at this truth (which Dwalin had reiterated every few days over the past month), and tipped his head further into the crook of his neck, smelling skin and feeling his hands loose their hesitancy as they tightened ever so slightly around his body. He sensed Dwalin no longer feared to hurt him now he knew he could move and be touched, and at Dwalin’s skin being so close after many nights apart, he found he himself was becoming bolder.

Soon, they were kissing, and Thorin’s weariness fell from him like the towel which dropped again to the floor, which this time was truly forgotten. Dwalin’s lips pushed a little, not as much as they usually did, and the hands pulling his hips towards him were still, not hard and wanton as in previous trysts since they had started out.

Thorin smoothed his fingers over the large hands, unfamiliar without their knuckleduster casing, but intoxicating all the same; the best hands to grab, and pull and command. He pressed them down to the unmarked skin on his bottom, and Thorin thought his lover would faint from his laboured breathing, his fingers taught and aching to press into the soft skin, but daring not to.

Even Dwalin’s erection felt hesitant between his legs, and it seemed as though he moved his hips ever so slightly back, so that Thorin wouldn’t feel it.

‘Now’s not the time, Thorin,’ Dwalin whispered against his mouth, when he finally had space to breathe- just barely.

His actions, Thorin noticed, were speaking the opposite of his words, and still his hands trailed down him, shivering and twitching as they found and lingered on each raised mark.

‘You’ll never be like this again, promise me.’

It wasn’t an ask, it was a request, to which Thorin wholeheartedly agreed with as long as those hands kept stroking him- one ghosting up his back to his neck, and pulling him in again for another kiss- hot, deep.

He felt himself gently being laid to the ground, though he chanced a look up at the high windows far above and behind him before spreading his legs. As soon as he looked back around, Dwalin was on top of him, with one hand bracing himself on the ground and the other almost reverently touching Thorin’s penis, which for all his hurt was still as proud as ever.

‘I don’t want to hurt you…’ he moaned, but his need was plain to see.

‘That much is evident, Dwalin,’ Thorin said, trying to buck his hips up, but his ribs and back strongly disagreed. He slipped a finger in the waistband of Dwalin’s trousers, but quickly felt his wrist being removed and his mouth stilled with another kiss.

‘This time is for you my King. Only for you,’ Dwalin said quietly. Thorin knew not whether to be disappointed he wouldn’t be getting cock, or humbled that he would put him first tonight. It was clear he wasn’t healed enough for a fuck, but if he let himself get lost in the sensation of Dwalin’s fingers working at him, of his needy little growls even though no hand was on him in return, he could forget almost completely about his aches.

Spreading his legs wider to accommodate Dwalin’s head was difficult, but once past that uncomfortable stretch of his sore muscles, his legs folded around the other dwarf’s ears and cheeks, and soon, despite a root digging incessantly into his back, he was in the all too familiar position of being driven on and on by that tongue. He’d missed the feel of his lover’s beard next to the sensitive skin of his sack and inner thighs; how it drove him wild almost to the point of excruciation was always a shock to him after a drought, and it was always now when he thought that he would never be able to do without Dwalin in his bedroom- swearing to at least have him on a daily basis once he sat on his throne under the mountain.

Dwalin’s head bobbed urgently and Thorin pushed himself up with one hand scrambling on the ground to try and get one last view of Dwalin’s eyes- closed tightly or looking hazily up at him, he wanted both. One of those strong hands which was wrapped securely around a thigh found its way to his heavy sack, and slowly began to fondle him- the sucking now becoming messy, sloppy and too fast for any trace of sensuality. Just the way Thorin had to have it.

The wet sounds of his lips on his over sensitive prick were ungodly- and this was ultimately what pushed him, as it always did, over the brink- his pent up and bottled lust reaching a crescendo suddenly. Thorin looked down one last time, and as he twisted a sharp, painful twinge ricocheted through him and his inhalation misted the air around them which was swimming slightly in his vision. He was there standing on the edge, buried to the hilt in Dwalin’s throat, urging his body to come, to spill.

Then Dwalin shot one look up at him, from down below his thighs, and it was all over.

His orgasm had made his ears ring, and he only noticed that he was crushing Dwalin’s cheeks with his tensed thighs until he looked down again, when he managed to prise his eyes open.

Dwalin looked as if he tried to speak, but his mouth was too full and he didn’t pull Thorin’s twitching cock from his lips until his body’s tremors had died down.

In the deep shadows, Thorin could barely see the mess he’d made of Dwalin’s beard, but when his legs were let down, Dwalin helpfully doing all the movements, he saw the glistening of his come and spit covering it and his mouth.

Dwalin sat down next to him heavily, shifting a little as his own hardness was still at full strength. Thorin reached out to him, and Dwalin took his hand to guide him up, pulling him back into a protective embrace.

The wind had picked up; far away he swore he could hear the sounds of elves singing.

‘Thorin…’ said Dwalin at last. Thorin turned to him, preparing himself for another admonition.

‘Dwalin, I’ve told you-’

‘You never promised to me. Earlier, when I said that this’ll never happen again, when I asked you.’

Thorin contemplated this- and above him in an overhanging tree, he heard the crow of a night bird. He breathed deeply, and with each breath felt the familiar twinges not totally softened by the water were returning- but he would not tell Dwalin. Not yet. He could promise him now, aye, but it would take him more nerve than he had to admit his hurts should this occur again- and he also feared if it happened again he wouldn’t be around to do so. Close calls would come closer, especially as their path’s danger increased.

But pain or without his brother in arms, without his lover… his Chosen…

‘I promise, Dwalin.’

‘And in turn, I promise you. For as long as we live, you’ll never have to endure this alone. By my blood, I swear it.’


End file.
